Everything Eclipse
by ibuberu
Summary: Mika, Seiji, and the semblance of something like love, but really isn't. – SeijiMika.


**Characters/Pairings** – Seiji/Mika  
**Spoilers** – for episode 11 onwards  
**Note(s)** – arghh, a canon couple that doesn't get the (crazy) love it needs

* * *

"I love you," he promises – as if they are living in a world where butterflies don't die and clouds don't rain. She leans back into his broad palms, raising her chin and to expose her milky neck. He draws nearer, planting a hungry kiss on the scar, she feels his dry lips on her skin, and her heart melts between the pins and needles. She smiles gravely, grins with pure delight and watches as the red wings of the butterflies catch fire and burn, as the black waters pour from the sky.

**Everything Eclipse**

Seiji continues talking blankly to the scar for five minutes, about life, about school, about how he will love it for every day for the rest of his existence, and then; they get up from bed and leave for school. She sings blithely in her mind, coaxing herself _nevermind, nevermind, you have him at your side_ and that is all that matters. Mika holds onto his warm fingers and runs her thumb over his bony knuckles as they dance up the streets together. She smiles despite his strangely detached countenance, glassy eyes lingering on the tables of the café they pass by – serving a reminder for their dreamlike escapade those few weeks back.

–

It was so magical, so perfect, their fifty-second meeting, as were the previous ones –

"C-Celty, it's you," he said in a whisper that echoed through her head, eyes wide with elation and mouth smiling all too genuinely. To him, it was their first meeting; bless his pure, boyish heart. Her heart leapt to her throat, palpitating too wildly – her Seiji was running towards her with arms inviting and face so picturesque. And the next moment, he had locked her in a tight embrace, buried her chin into his shaking shoulder, and began to spill out words of undying attraction, affection, and salvation.

"It's funny, you look so familiar, and I don't mean it because I've spent the last ten years watching you," he said – it was a time when he still talked so much and so honestly, she was a fool to not have tape recorded those treasured times, too caught up with the music in his voice and the twinkle in his dark eyes. She laughed meekly, keeping the scorching truth hidden so well under blankets and blankets of icy dreams and make-believes. It was heartbreaking, yes, that she had only been to his apartment a few weeks back – and before that, tailed him so often, he knew what time her classes ended, the thoughtful Seiji – yet, he could not recognize her.

"Silly, I'm the Celty you know, and I love you too." She was stringing another ornamental lie on the thread of their relationship. And screaming, screaming, screaming, in her crowded mind: _Look at me, I'm Mika, I'm better than any bitch called Celty, rip my plastic face that itches so bad, and see the real me – I'm the one that loves you. I don't care if you've fallen in love with a disembodied head, I can be your mistress, I can be second-best, hell, I can be third or fourth or fifth…_ –

but I want to be yours.

–

In the end, she settles – because for Seiji, no sacrifice is too great, and everything is painless when compared to him. She places him on his rightful pedestal, the worries of running away and getting caught are all too far behind her now, she is fogbound in a love too thick and tangible. They finally have a place to stay, a _home_, and going to school is so nostalgic, especially with Anri there.

Life is not perfect, but she manages, she contents herself – though her lips ache for attention, crave for passion and love – they are so lonely, so dry and so chaffed. Her neck is slowly becoming bothersome too, consistently craning for those heavenly hands, angling for his darling lips. But she takes everything in optimistic stride; she does anything and everything to please the hero that is her Seiji. On the nights he prepares their dinner, he serves instant noodles and wooden chopsticks, and slurps away in a manner that brings haunting memories flashing behind her eyes. But _nevermind, nevermind the past,_ this is what is important, and she loves Seiji because it would be impossible not to love him. His breath perfumes the air, he is so heroic, he is wonderful and he is never flawed – he deserves to be waited on, accompanied by her, every single second of every single day. He is never to be alone, she will not accept that horrendous thought, and she will not let that false reality happen.

–

During the odd days of the week, it is her turn to provide for dinner, and she creates plates of vegetables, meat, rice lavished with spices she buys from the store just down the road. She paints smiling faces and pretty hearts with ketchup, dark red and liquid, so easy to mould and bend to her will and sleight of hand. She spends those afternoons sitting in his lap as he flicks through the television channels and rests his hand on her neck, flipping through the new white pages of the cookbooks she buys with all the money she has left in her plastic blue credit card.

He gobbles everything down without a comment, and she adores every motion weaved into it.

–

At night, she tries hard to wear less, a nearly translucent white singlet and a pair of black shorts, go without a bra – she wants his hands caressing her, loving her. She snuggles into his chest and presses her body along the curve of his, wraps her hands around his neck as he continues to observe the screen of the telly with a level of slightly higher interest. He rests a free hand on her hip, but does nothing more. Occasionally, he irons a kiss on her scar – and that is it. _Our love isn't real love_, she recalls him saying. She laughs giddily into his shoulder, and instantly adds on _that it is so much stronger than that._

When she tries to kiss him, he turns his apathetic cheek to avoid her, and her hot mouth lands on the skin there instead. She feels like sobbing, but doesn't – for Seiji.

Seiji doesn't say much now. She wishes he would. But it is alright, because she can speak on behalf of them – they are in tune with one another, that it is wholly possible and so romantic. She's always assumed him to be the quiet, composed type anyway, and she being the talkative girl to balance them out – just like all those characters of flowery shoujo manga. They are a couple like that, so well matched, like pieces of a puzzle.

_A puzzle of utter madness and anti-reality, made up of the shattered, jagged portions of two teenagers who are crazy in the mind. One is a stalker with undying love and one has a fetish for neck scars._

But she smiles it away, like everything else. Because it just makes them all the more compatible than anyone else in the city.

–

They take strolls in the park when Seiji doesn't feel like returning home to a threeroom apartment with two mattresses and faulty pumbling – she will help him write that history essay due and solve those algebraic equations tonight, so that he doesn't need to stay up late worrying about his ridiculous homework. She clings closely to his arm, though his hand remains empty and limp. She has stopped trying to tangle her fingers with his, because it is a rarity for him to return the gesture, he can't seem to be bothered with such a simple act – and she understands, because Seiji has his reasons, and he's godly like that.

But when a scuffle breaks out between a man wearing a yellow cap in front of the haunting fountain, and a seemingly normal passer-by, she startles and blinks her eyes, the kicks and punches growing in intensity as more people join. The people attempting to break apart the fight get swallowed up by the brawlers, and the next thing she knows, she's running away from the scene.

And Seiji is grabbing her hand, tugging her along his dash.

"Seiji…?" she speaks instinctively, very vacantly. She fixates her gaze on their hands, interlocking, and so nostalgic. When was the last time she felt such a thrilling rush, the intoxication of his hand? She remembers, only vaguely; back when the black biker was chasing after her, with Seiji protecting her so dearly.

They come to a halt between traffic lights at the corner of a bustling road. She inclines her head and looks at his face as he catches his breath. He flicks his gaze briefly onto her, before diverting his eyes prudently.

"Unsafe… just.. wanted to…" he trails off, quietly.

She pauses, trying to make sense, before throwing her arms around him, ignoring the lack of coherency in his sentence, treasuring the hug.

–

In the company of a quiet afternoon, Seiji turns on the news channel, timely enough to witness an exclusive cover on the recent wave of gang movements, the Dollars and the Yellow Scarves in particular. Of ambush fights, of civilians getting mugged, of the Slasher being part of the motley crew, and how the number of people getting stabbed are on a rise. She shudders unmistakably as the reporter gestures to the sight of footage that has been recorded from the previous night, the blood inking the pavements and pooling on the fabrics of the man's shirt terrifies her. The memory of blood painting stark white walls and tracing the outline of her body returns so vividly. The pain and the inability to see Seiji's handsome face. It is the horrifying imagination of that situation, of the heart-wrenching turmoil – not being able to see him nor talk to him ever again.

This, this blood and this madness – it scares her.

Seiji plants his hands on her shoulders and turns her so that she is facing him. His stoic gaze touches her scar so familiarly, but then, it raises and locks onto her watering eyes. His mouth moves, though his staid countenance reins champion. But she sees something flashing by his face – like concern, like worry, like a reciprocation of feelings, like fireworks exploding in a dazzle. Like a fairytale dream come true.

"I'll protect you."

He leans forward as the tears break from her eyes.

–

His lips flutter over hers.


End file.
